


A Week in the Life

by endlesslabyrinth



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Angst, Canon Relationships, Depression, Five Stages of Grief, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-10 01:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesslabyrinth/pseuds/endlesslabyrinth
Summary: The week before Roger died was filled with torrential emotions, good and bad conversations, and unpredictable revelations.





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this idea in the back of my head for a while, but it took seeing the play live for it's current tour that finally pushed me over the edge. (ohmygosh its so amazing I fell in love all over again) I love this story and these characters so much! And I hope my small contribution brings a little something to this fandom. Enjoy!

The morning was cold. God damn  _cold_  like every morning in this god forsaken city.

Mark steeled himself at the sight of empty cupboards, willing not to get angry at the view. The no food. No heat. No money. No  _nothing_. Because getting angry would not help either of them. It was pointless anger when energy was precious and non-renewable. There was just  _nothing_  he could do. And he was all alone, and this was all his responsibility, and he was getting really sick of all this responsibility because he never asked for any of it, and he didn't know what he was doing, and he really god damned needed to know what he was doing because-

Roger coughed.

The sound was a siren call to Mark who immediately abandoned the barren kitchen and all but leaped to their loft's living room. Roger hadn't moved much this morning, going straight from his bedroom to the couch, accompanied by his warmest pants, oversized sweater, and the blanket Mark had draped over him the night before. The man still shivered like a leaf. 

"Roger, you awake?" Mark tested the waters. Trying to ignore the incessant pounding of his heart in his chest.

Roger nodded in response, not bothering--or not having the energy--to open his eyes.

Mark ran his hands over his best friend’s skinny, blanketed shoulder, "I'll get you some hot coffee." He said.

At that, Roger did open his eyes and tried to open his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another violent coughing fit that quickly overtook him, wracking his body with tremors and spasms and stopping his even breath.

Marks throat closed up as he moved quickly to sit his friend up. He leaned Roger over to ease the coughing, like he had done so many times before. Rogers skin was so hot. Too hot. And sweat had all but tattooed itself to his face. He had been sick the entire week. Struck by a sudden winter cold that too quickly turned into a violent fever. Now, Mark was starting to worry about potential phenomena. Rogers coughs were wet. Harsh. All-consuming. 

They had been doing everything _right_. Mark had a steady income miraculously, and Roger still had some savings from the singles he'd recently released. They could afford their last batch AZT. That had been the last of their spending money, but Roger still had pills left and was taking them every day. They were supposed to be helping him. But instead all Mark could see was a failing immune system cheated out early in the person be cared most about in this world because of one mistake. He saw a failing immune system that medicine was not helping. 

Mark tried to hide the shaking in his voice. "It’s okay. It’s okay. Let it out. Breath."

Roger gasped for breath. "Fuck off, Cohen," he said with as much of his witty sarcasm he could muster.  _Fuck off Cohen with your perfect, jewish lungs_. He remembered Roger quipping earlier that week. They'd both shared a laugh.

_The last laugh they'd had, actually_ , Mark thought.

Mark pushed the thought away and slapped a half smile on his face, "So forward. At least buy me dinner first." 

Roger returned the sentiment with a middle finger in Marks face, an action that did startle breathy laugh from Mark. Rogers breathing evened out and, with Mark trailing soothing circles across his back, the man’s coughing fit eased. 

Mark gently lay him back down on the couch, but didn't leave his side, not wanting to take his hand away from his friend’s shoulder, not wanting to be too far away, not wanting his breaths out of earshot.

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked.

Roger didn't answer right away. The man still shivered in his blankets and let his eyes fall closed once more. He looked so tired. The bags under his eyes had no place on his young face. And the wrinkles embedded all across his face betrayed the years of abuse and stress he'd put his body through. His face was so pale, and his body so weak. He hadn’t been able to keep ant sort of food down all week. Liquids were the best bet, but at this rate, Roger would inadvertently starve himself before his fever could take him. The sight broke Marks heart. 

_But we've been through this before_ , Mark reminded himself... Even if it had never really gotten this bad before... they would make it through this. They always had. This was just a harsher winter fever that Roger dealt with every year. And Roger would be fine like always.

Rogers voice finally broke through. And it was softer and weaker then Mark had ever heard it. "I'm so tired, Mark."

Marks throat just kept threatening to close up. God damned organ. He pushed down the cotton ball in his throat. "I can try and help with that. I think we still have some coffee beans left over. I can heat up some water."

Roger looked like he wanted to say no, his face turned up in nausea at the thought. But they both knew he needed nourishment. And coffee was the best they had. He nodded slowly, and tried to bury himself once more in his covers. 

Mark stood and quickly made his way back to the kitchen, task at hand. He filled their coffee pot with water and set it to heat up. He busied himself by scavenging the cupboards with renewed determination. There had to be some coffee in here somewhere. What if he tried the pantry next door. If he told the neighbors their predicament, they would surely lend him a cup? And if he needed to, he could go to the store and pick some up. He would just be leaving Roger alone which was never a good idea, but-

"Mark?"

Mark zipped his head around and was staring at a ghost. Roger stood near the couch, his blanket forgotten, looking like he'd crawled out of a grave. Everything next happened in slow motion. His face turned sickly pale and he took one step before his eyes rolled up behind his head and his body collapsed hard against the rugged, wooden floors.

"Roger!"

Mark sped from the kitchen back to the living room, slamming his knees on the hard floor bending quick to Rogers side.

"Roger! _Roger_!" Mark gripped his friend’s shoulders and turned him around on his back. He shook his friend hard, harder then he probably should have, but his racing heart had no concept of ration in that moment. The only thing that mattered was the closed eyes of his friend and the fact that Mark needed those eyes open now. Roger moaned on the ground, but did not open his eyes or make any move to get up or show that he was okay. 

Mark raced to the phone and pounded in the three numbers he'd been dreading having to do for five years.

After one ring the line was answered, "911 what is your emergency?"

 

~~~

 

"I left the coffee pot on," Mark realized.

"What?" Collins asked.

"The coffee pot. I left it on before we left. I forgot to turn it off. I was getting Roger some coffee.”

Mark didn't miss the look of terrible pity of Collins' sad face. "I’m sure it'll turn off on its own. Those things are on a timer," he said.

"Yeah."

Mark and Collins sat in two uncomfortable waiting room chairs at the emergency room of New York Methodist Hospital. The paramedics had let Mark ride in the ambulance with Roger, but once they'd gotten to the operating doors, they made him stay behind. 

_"What are you doing with him!" Mark had screamed, fending off a poor nurse trying to restrain him from prowling through the operating room doors_

_"He’s coughing up fluids. They need to clear out his lungs." The nurse had said._

The memory was bright and painful, despite the numbness engulfing Mark. Collins had showed up a half hour later, having been notified as the second next-of-kin in Rogers file. The first next-of-kin was already there. 

Neither man spoke much. There wasn't much to say. But when Mark looked over at Collins, he saw tears streaming quietly down his face. Mark hated him for it.

Suddenly, a woman with a clipboard approached them. "Mark Cohen?" She asked, "here with Roger Davis?"

Mark sat up straighter, "yeah that’s me. How is he?"

"Im sorry," she started, "he's still in surgery. The doctors are working on him best they can to bring down his fever and get his breathing under control. As of right now, they’re diagnosing him with typical, acute phenomena, but they have to take extra precautions due to his... condition." She said as kindly as she could.

Mark mentally counted to ten and ignored the obvious prejudice. "Do you know when they'll be done?"

Her eyes were genuinely sympathetic. "I’m sorry, I don't."

Mark just slumped back into his chair, feeling Collins' supporting hand on his shoulder and taking in the news in stride.

But the woman hadn't left after delivering her message. "Mr. Cohen, I'm so sorry to have to bring this up, but we need to speak on the matter of insurance."

Marks heart fell to his stomach. "He doesn't have insurance. He... he's not insured."

The woman just nodded, not as surprised at the news as she should have been. "Well in that case, I'll need you to fill out some paperwork if you can."

She handed Mark some of the papers and the clipboard and pen. She offered the pair one last, pitying smile and left them with the knowledge that they could drop off the papers at the desk whenever they finished. Mark just held the clipboard in his hands numbly. After a while, Collins slipped his hand in and took the papers from him. Mark held his gaze straight in front of him. For a while, all that could be heard was the scratching of a pen. 

A sudden thought struck Mark. "Maureen and Joanne. I forgot about them. But Roger probably wouldn't want them to fuss."

"I called them. They're about another hour out." Collins replied. 

Mark wanted to tell Collins that was ridiculous. There was hardly a need for them to drive all the way to the hospital when they lived outside the city. Roger was going to be fine. But Collins kept scratching at the papers so Mark dropped the comment. But now Mark remembered his boiling coffee pot. And the simple thought that Roger needed some coffee. 

"Do you think they'll give him some coffee when he wakes up? Can people with pneumonia drink coffee?" Mark asked.

"I don’t know. They'll probably start him on water first."

"Collins, why are you crying?"

The older man simply scrunched his face in sorrow. "Oh Mark..."

"Don’t, Collins. Don’t. Don't say anything. He's going to be fine. You don't need to be fucking crying right now because he's going to be fine!" 

Collins didn't meet his eyes, but didn't stop the stream riding down his face. He looked so sad. Like the wounded soul he embodied when Angel died... and when Mimi died. His entire face drooped and expressed such absolute sorrow, it was like all the happiness had been sucked from the world. Because what else could crumble a man so capable of life and love and happiness? 

Mark stood up suddenly, unable to sit in the waiting room a moment longer. He heard a small "Mark, wait!" behind him, but he ignored it. Mark stormed out of the room and wandered the halls aimlessly until he found himself in what looked like a storage hallway with surprisingly no people. Perfect. 

He found a tile square near the wall and slid down to the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his head in them. It was so much easier to do _this_. To find some stupid corner and curl up and focus on the nails digging hard into his arms instead of his world torrenting around him like a fucking hurricane. Mark almost felt detachedly embarrassed at his behavior, but nothing could have prepared him for the way his body decided to react. Everything was just so… unreal. And his own body was fighting itself in a way he had never experienced before. His brain didn’t feel like venturing into the possibilities his immediate future was going to have, but his body had different motives.

Mark’s chest felt too heavy and the prickling around his eyes suddenly became too overwhelming to control. Tears spilled out of them without his approval, and his throat soon followed. Unrelenting, breathy sobs escaped him, shaking his small frame and consuming him from the inside out. He hugged his knees closer shrinking as far away from reality as he could, but still failing. So, he just sobbed harder. And dug his nails in deeper.

Through his haze of pain, he felt a strong, gentle hand on his shoulder. He peeked out of his cocoon for just enough time to recognize Collins before gripping his coat collar and pulling the man into an awkward embrace he was never going to let go of. Mark sobbed into Collins' coat as the older man rubbed a soothing hand through Mark's hair. 

" _Shhh shh_ , Mark. Breath." He said, with a chilling similarity to the mantra Mark had given Roger just hours earlier. "Roger’s getting taken care of. He's in the hospital getting the help he needs. He's around help."

"He just collapsed, Collins!” Mark surprised himself. Apparently, that’s where his mind was taking him. “He just fell down and stopped moving. And I let it happen."

"Shh, shh. You did everything you could."

"He can’t die." A fear gripped Mark like he had never experienced before. His blood ran cold and his stomach fell painfully in his chest. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. "He can’t die. He can’t leave yet."

To that, Collins had nothing to say, he just held Mark tighter.

"He can’t leave." Mark continued. "He's my best friend. I love him. He can’t leave."

 

~~~

 

Two, long hours later found Mark, Collins, Maureen, and Joanne all sitting in the same emergency room waiting chairs looking like a strange coupling of the Breakfast Club. When they first arrived, Maureen had stormed into the waiting room with fresh tears in her red eyes and slammed Mark into a fierce hug. 

_"He's gonna be okay, baby. He's gonna be okay," she had sobbed into his neck._

_Mark had patted her shoulder._

Now, they sat. Waiting. Waiting for the answer they all knew wasn't going to be good.

Horrid memories of fourteen months ago flood Mark's memory. Just three weeks after they'd gotten Mimi back from the dead, the disease decided to take her again. Just as things has taken a marginal step forward, just as Roger and Mimi started to entertain the idea of starting a fresh life again, Mimi's fever returned in full force, and not two days later she was in the hospital saying her last goodbyes. 

It had been just as painful as Angel's death, multiplied by two at the still open wounds she had left behind. Mark had feared Mimi's death would spiral Roger into a second wave of smack-fueled depression like April's had. But Mimi had apparently told Roger something right before she died.

Mark had asked, but Roger never said exactly what her words were. But whatever her magic had been, she helped inspire Roger to return to his music, start writing again, publish his song for her, and live a more exuberant life then he had before he ever tried smack. Mark had felt embarrassingly jealous of the fact that Mimi could inspire such change in Roger where he could not. But then Roger would come to him, his eyes so lit up in unabashed excitement, wanting to show Mark his drafts, or play him a new chord on his guitar. And Mark would smile, and everything would be okay. These last months had been the happiest and hardest Mark had ever experienced. Everything had been fine until last week. And today.

_No day but today_ , Mark thought bitterly.

"Party for Roger Davis?" a woman’s voice rang out. 

Four heads snapped to attention. Maureen jumped out of her chair and called a nurse and scrub-clad doctor towards them. The doctor looked haggard, and the bags under her eyes were probably not just from Roger’s case, judging by the full waiting room.

"You're all here for Roger Davis?" The doctor asked once she'd approached the group.

"Yeah, I'm Mark Cohen, his listed next of kin."

She nodded. "Roger is stable.”

The air suddenly became easier to breathe. Marks chest felt airier, and he didn't bother to suppress the smile that sprung on his face. 

"Roger is stable," she continued, "but he is still considered to be in critical condition."

And just as quick, the chill returned.

"What?" Mark heard Maureen say.

"Please sit-down ma'am," the doctor said gently, "Roger came in with a severe case of pneumonia and a high fever. I won’t get into too much medical jargon, but because of his AIDS, his immune system was not able to fight off the infection."

_I know that_ , Mark wanted to spit at her. He clenched his fists and bit his tongue.

The doctor went on. "This is something that we could usually treat with a case of antibiotics and a couple weeks of rest. But in Roger’s case, the antibiotics will most likely be ineffective since his body has virtually no foundation for them to work on. We've started him anyways on a pretty severe dose of antibiotics and we're monitoring his progress. But I want to warn you all, this might not turn out in our favor. He’s stable right now, however."

She finished her speech. It felt calculated. Rehearsed. Like this was routine for her. 

Mark felt numb. He heard Collins ask, "can we see him?"

The doctor nodded. "He's awake. We normally would recommend limiting guests to two at most. But seeing as you're all here..."

_And seeing as you don't think Roger will last the week_ , Mark thought.

The doctor lead them through a maze of identical patient rooms that Mark immediately got lost in. He thought he heard Collins' ask something about the medical coverage involved, and all he heard back was, "It’s all taken care of." Which made Mark marginally guilty for the harsh thoughts at the doctor, but his guilt was fleeting and quickly flew from his scope as she stopped them in front of a wide patient door and opened it.

Marks heart beat obnoxiously hard in his chest, but he kept his face neutral as he stepped into Rogers small room. But no amount of mental prep could have prepared him for the image he was struck with.

Roger, looking skinnier and paler then Mark had ever seen him, lay sleeping on his hospital bed, hair frizzy from sweat and chills, and heavy bags draping under his eyes. Most startling of all was the breathing mask firmly fastened to his face. It covered more than half of his entire face, and made him look more artificial and lifeless then he ever did during his withdrawal. A steady heart monitor beeped rhythmically in the background and drown out his tiny breaths that fogged up his mask. 

Mark felt his knees go weak and could not suppress a whimpered gasp that escaped.

Maureen followed suit with a loud gasp and sound of distress and she made her way to Roger’s side in an instance. Her face contorted into a look of genuine pain that dimly surprised Mark. The two had never been outwardly close, but this was more the Maureen's typical over-dramatics. She was quickly joined by Joanne and Collins. All four people that Mark cared about most were in his line of sight for the worst possible reasons. Joanne looked defeated and small. Collins looked like he was going to fall apart at any moment, his face barely containing the pain that wanted to no doubt burst out. All that in one image. Mark almost thought it could be objectively poetic. 

But this wasn’t a movie, this was his real life staring at him. And the sight was just so  _wrong_. This shouldn't be happening. Mark could think of nothing but the fact that this shouldn't be happening to him again and how he didn't know how he was going to do this. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings all at once. He wasn't ready. How was  _anyone_  supposed to be ready? 

It didn’t feel real.

The doctor began speaking again. "Roger should be waking up soon. The surgeons put him under a light anesthetic to ease the draining in his lungs, and it should be wearing off soon. You're all welcome to stay as long as you want."

Mark finally found his voice. It was stronger than he thought it would be. "Why are you giving us such special treatment?" He asked.

The doctor looked at him like he should know the answer. Mark did. But he wanted her to say it out loud. Dared her to.

"We just want everyone to be comfortable," she settled on saying. She quietly excused herself and closed the door behind her. 

The group stood in silence, Mark looking pointedly anywhere but at the figure of his best friend lying in the bed. Maureen pulled a chair close to Rogers bed and started stroking bits of his hair. A tiny flash of anger flew in Mark at the sight, because how dare she do something so intimate to Roger when Mark was way closer to him. But the feeling left as soon as it came. Joanne sat next to Maureen and slid her hands around Maureen's stomach to rest her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. Collins drew a chair close as well, and sat forward, elbows on knees and hands to lips, looking at Roger with a unwavering intensity. It was a long moment before Mark joined their sigil, but eventually he absorbed the silent camaraderie and tried to draw the strength he knew he would need to make it through the night.  


	2. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I've been traveling, and it's surprisingly hard to upload chapters in the middle of the wilderness. Enjoy!

Two days had passed and Roger still hadn’t gotten any better. And of course, the day Mark decided to boycott hospitals was the day Roger decided to be an ass.

Mark heard the phone ring at about 3:30.

BEEP. _Speeeeeeeak_.

"Mark!" Maureen's shrill, electronic voice made Mark wince. "I know you're there. And I don't care if you pick up the phone or not because you're going to listen to me. You need to get your ass to the hospital and sort out your asshole roommate right now."— _Wow. Roger had been demoted to 'roommate'._ —"AIDS or no AIDS that does not give him the right to be disrespectful- cruel- snobbish- moody- when everyone around him is just trying to help and- pookie, no! Give me the phone. I'm not done-!"

A half hour later the phone rang again. 

BEEP. _Speeeeeeeak_.

"Mark, its Joanne. Don't worry about Maureen, we're back home and she’s in a bubble bath. She tried to bring Roger some cookies to cheer him up, and he just sort of threw them back at her. He's been feeling nauseous, you probably know. And the stress is just getting to both of them. But it’s all okay. I hope you're doing alright. Call if you need anything. We're here for you too, not just Roger."

Mark lay sedentary on the couch like he had been since he woke up that morning. His limbs felt like lead, and his chest pressed down on him like an anvil. He could not make his body move. His notebook laid on his stomach. He had amused himself earlier, assuming his brain could write in the foggy state it seemed to reside in. His eyes gazed steadfast upwards at the ceiling, looking at nothing. Trying to feel nothing.

But that was hard when all your friends kept dying.

Mark tried to rationalize death. No small feat. And part of the reason he hadn't left the couch all day. Because he was most defiantly _not_ trying to avoid Roger. And that damned hospital room. It was just really stuffy in there.

And surrounded by death.

But death was a natural process; everyone died eventually. It was the only thing known in life beyond taxes, and Mark knew how to avoid taxes. But what was the purpose of death? Or life, for that matter? What was the point of being born on this rock and going through motions for a couple decades and then leaving? What was the point to meeting other people, and building relationships and making memories and preserving experiences when death was just going to come in and take all of that away. Nothing follows you in death, and no one can defy it. So why did humans even bother doing anything? It was just going to get ripped away anyways. 

Why did humans have to  _feel_?

Mark blinked hard and was surprised to find tears streaking down his cheeks. 

He knew his thoughts were spinning in dangerous circles that he would be caught in forever if he let himself. But at this moment, it was easier to be mad at the pointlessness of the world then to move off the couch, so in his thoughts he would stay.

He would visit Roger tomorrow.


	3. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and Mark finally talk.

The days stretched on.

Time moved differently in a hospital, Mark realized. Roger's condition improved only moderately. He no longer hacked out his lungs every half hour, but instead traded that time for naps. Mark had never seen Roger so sleepy before. Mark would have been relatively okay with this new development, since under any normal circumstances it would mean his body was trying to heal and rejuvenate. But all Mark could see when Roger slept was the ever-continuous bags under his eyes that never faded anymore, the sickly pallor that was now his normal complexion, that and the new development of purple and blue blotches that started appearing all over Rogers skin. It was too familiar. Too soon, and too tell-tale of the next steps that would be taken. Mark figured his heart was losing years off its expectancy every time he walked into the hospital room to a sleeping Roger and wondered if he had missed the last time he would ever be awake. But then Mark would forcibly remind himself that he had been talkative and alert the night before and today was not the last day.

But the constant terror and stress was very quickly taking its toll on Mark. On everyone. Mark had not had another outward breakdown since the first night Roger was in the hospital. He had held things together since that initial surprise, but he wondered how much longer he'd be able to plaster his good face on every morning. 

Not counting his off-kilter day three, he scarcely spent more than an hour in the morning and evening at the apartment anymore. Hardly left the hospital. And only left at night because the nurses insisted their special treatment only extended during visiting hours, and that Mark could not in fact call himself kin and spend the night with Roger. 

Jerks.

But Roger insisted he wasn't lacking for visitors. The entire group rallied on his behalf. With Collins spending almost as much time as Mark with Roger, and keeping him company to give Mark breaks from the four walls. Maureen and Joanne stopped by for at least a little while every day, smuggling in an assortment of treats and stories to keep spirits up. 

Roger took most of it in stride. His moodiness was scarce for the first time in a long time. It had only really flared up once in what was now affectionately being deemed “the cookie incident of Wednesday”. Mark had finally gotten the whole story of how Roger had blown up, yelling that he didn't have a ' _god damned appetite and to stop shoving things in his face._ ' To which Maureen had darted from the room, quickly followed by Joanne. Roger had apparently held a guilty pout the rest of that day and ate the next cookie given to him. 

But everyone knew it wasn't really about the cookies. Just like it hadn't been about the coffee pot for Mark. Everything was just… piling. 

Mark would have given his left foot for access into Rogers head. He wondered detachedly exactly what sort of thoughts entered the heads of people who were actively dying. On the outside, he almost seemed at peace. Calmer than any time before. But maybe he was just tired. 

It was the end of a longer day of visitors for Roger. It was Friday, and Maureen and Joanne had left an hour ago, transitioning to two of Rogers old band mates. The three band members had shared a fair number of laughs after recovering from their initial shock at Roger’s deteriorated condition. Memories were relived with joy and nostalgia, with the promise of many more " _once you get outta this place, Rog_."

But as they gathered their bags to leave, both men’s eyes shined a bit too inconspicuously. Mark chose very pointedly to ignore them.

"Finally, a quiet moment," Mark said several moments after the men left.

Roger smiled, a tired, half smile, but a genuine smile nonetheless. He asked after a minute, "Did you bring the envelope?"

Mark nodded and pulled out the thick, wrinkled envelope he'd dug out from under Roger’s mattress the night before. "In all its glory. Can I open it now?" Mark said with sarcastic frustration. 

"Let it be unveiled," Roger said, spreading out his arms dramatically.

Mark picked off the tape sealing the letter like he'd been wanting to do ever since his roommate came to him with his weird request, yesterday.

_"Mark, I need you to grab it and bring it here. But don’t open it yet." Roger had asked._

_"Okay. But, why not?"_

_"Just promise me. Please."_

And of course, Mark had. He flipped open the flap and peaked at the contents. Inside were folded up five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills. Mark didn't count the money exactly, but there had to be close to three hundred dollars inside. 

"What's this?" He asked.

"Money," Roger said. "For you and Collins."

Mark paused. Long. "What is this supposed to mean?"

"It’s all the tip money we got from the latest gig we've been doing. There's like three hundred and fifty something dollars in there. And I want you and Collins to use it to buy two bus tickets to Santa Fe." Roger's words were picked carefully, rehearsed. 

Mark could only stare at his roommate dumbfounded. Confusion and anger quickly bubbled in his stomach as Rogers words sank in. "Roger, what the fuck do you mean?"

He took a deep breath, suppressing a yawn and cough all at once. "I mean that after I'm gone, you guys won’t have any reason to hang around this bum-ass place anymore. And you shouldn't. You two should get out of New York and open up that restaurant in Santa Fe. The one we always talked about."

Mark did his best to remain calm and gently placed the envelope on the food tray next to the bed. "Well as far as I can see, you're not gone yet. So, you can keep your money, and shove that talk _riiight_ back up your ass."

"Mark, I'm being serious."

"So am I." 

Roger sighed his head back into his pillow, playing up the I'm-sick-and-tired-so-don't-argue-with-me look perfectly. "This isn't exactly easy on me either, you know. At least let me die knowing you and Collins will make it out if this hell hole."

"Okay how about not talking about you dying, period."

"Mark, please. You deserve better than this place."

Mark paused, folding his arms tight to his chest. Roger—for all his shortcomings and needy-ness and emotional-ness and selfishness—was a good person at heart. He knew how hard he was to handle, and how the people that surrounded him were loyal to a fault. But his self-awareness came seldom enough that it was always a bit of a surprise when he expressed it outwardly. Maybe deep, deep down Mark thought he deserved better. But he also knew that Roger did too. And most importantly, he knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn't trade his life or the people in it for anything. 

"Rog...." he started, "I... I'm. I just don't want to think about this yet. I'm not ready to talk about... this."

Rogers revolve fell, but he didn't have the energy to argue, either. "Okay. Well, at least hold onto the envelope for now. Think of it as part of my living will, or something."

"Mmhm," Mark replied. He sat down in the chair beside Rogers bed. But then Mark realized he was not ready to let the conversation lie. "You know why I'm fighting you on this right. You realize how messed up this is?"

Roger lifted his head and hands in exasperation. "Not really? I guess I was trying to do something nice for you guys? Leave something behind for you to remember me by, you know."

"That’s not the point, Roger. This envelope," Mark grabbed the item in question, "means that you're giving up. You're giving me something I'll use when you're dead."

Rogers eyebrows knit in anger. "News flash, Cohen, I'm dying!"

"Well, you don't have to be so okay about it!"

"Well maybe I'm not!" Roger shouted. His anger elevated his voice and, without warning, Roger fell into a fit of violent coughs. His body seized up and his eyes grew wide with fear as his body shook with horrid, painful coughs that stole his breath and hacked away wetly.

Mark stood up. "Roger!"

He ran to his friend’s side immediately. His hands slid under Rogers back and eased him up in a sitting position. But Roger's coughs didn't stop, but instead became breathier as he gasped for air. His eyes screwed shut in pain and he let his head fall limply into Marks chest. 

Marks heart raced as he pressed the call button rigorously. Within thirty seconds, two nurses came running into the room and shooed Mark to the corner. They skirted around the different medical machines surrounding Roger’s bed and places a breathing mask securely on his face. Machines whirled to life and, Roger sucked in large gasps of air through the plastic. 

"Hold this to your face, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths," the nurse said. 

Roger just let himself fall back to his pillow, eyes closed.

"And you," the same nurse turned on Mark, "you watch yourself. We could hear your screaming all the way down the hall."

Marks ears turned red and he held his eyes down cast. The two nurses left and Mark wasted no time rushing back to Rogers side. 

"Roger," he started.

Roger moved the mask from his face. "M’ fine."

"I'm sorry."

"Its fine."

"It’s not. I shouldn't have yelled," Mark said. He quickly poured Roger a glass of water and handed it to him

Roger grabbed it and laid back silently. He took small sips and breathed deeply. Mark dropped back into the chair hard, fighting against the tightness in his throat. The two men sat in silence, Mark letting his head hang between his shoulders, not daring to disturb the silence. 

Roger finally did. "I _am_ scared, Mark." Roger swallowed hard and looked directly at the ceiling, not willing to make eye contact with Mark. "I'm fucking terrified to die. I don't want to die. Its messy, and it sucks, and there’s  _no_  dignity attached to it. But there’s nothing I can really, fucking do about it at this point. I did this to myself, so I have to deal with it." Tears started brimming in his upturned eyes. "And right now, I want to deal with it by giving the two people I care most about the last of what I own. So that they can make better lives for themselves, okay?"

"Roger..." tears were flowing freely down Mark's cheeks. He was frozen in place.

Roger blinked hard. "I wrote my song. I left at least one thing behind. I'm... letting myself go knowing that."

"You left more than just one thing behind."

Roger smiled. God, Mark loved that smile. Loved everything about him.

"You made a lot of my life worth living, Mark. I never got to pay you back for that. I want to try, now."

Mark stood and ran exasperated hands through his hair. "Fuck, Roger. You picked a hell of a time to get sentimental."

"Better late than never."

"Fuck off." Mark said, smiling for real.

"Can't. I don't have perfect, Jewish lungs."

Mark laughed a watery laugh. He let himself feel every bit of this moment. Even without his primed filmmaker lens, Mark knew this was a moment to experience, watery eyes and full, breaking heart and all. 

"What am I going to do without you, Roger?" He found himself asking. 

"Fuck if I know," Roger responded immediately. "Hopefully your high school porno goes blockbuster one day."

"'Hopefully'?"

"Gotta stay optimistic."

"Uh huh. Scoot over."

"What?" Roger said.

"Scoot over. I'm crawling in." Mark said. He shoved Roger’s side gently. Roger’s confused expression complied, and he scooted as far as the tiny bed would allow. Mark, all one hundred and seventy pounds of him, kicked off his sneakers and slid in next to Roger.

Mark felt the warmth radiating off the thick mattress, the warmth captured by the hospital blanket, the warmth coming from Roger. The warmth that still proved life in his best friend. He knew how cheesy he was being, but something told him this is exactly what he should be doing in this moment. Roger didn't protest at all when Mark dug his hand out from under the blanket and clasped it firmly on his. He also didn't protest when Mark let his head fall of Rogers shoulder, close enough where he could hear every raspy breath the rocker took. He felt Roger dip his head on top of Mark's, some of Roger’s longer strands of hair tickling Mark's ear. Mark let himself feel at peace, even if tears continually prickled his eyes. 

"You know, people are going to think we're gay." Roger broke the silence with a smile on his face.

Mark shrugged. "Whatever."

A half hour later, Collins walked into Rogers room and found the two boys asleep cuddling in the same position. He had never run so fast in his life when he darted to the hospital gift shop, bought a disposable camera, and emptied the film with future blackmail. 


	4. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOO sorry this took forever to upload! Life, amirite?

Two days went by and Mark tested the waters with something he probably should have done a while ago. "Do you want me to call your mother?" He asked.

Roger, still stuck in his hospital bed, instantly steeled his expression, and slid his gaze to the window. 

Roger's relationship with his mother had been complicated to say the least. When Roger was eleven, she left him and his father to run off with a man Roger had never met. Roger's father had never been a steller parent either, so the poor kid had to fend for himself too early in his life. But Roger still had enough good memories and relations with his mother to send her post cards on his whereabouts.

Roger had told Mark once that she cared very deeply for him, she just didn't always know how to show it. But Mark thought she should know where her son was now. If anything, to give Roger some closure.

Mark waited with a contained breath for Roger's response.

"Might as well," he finally said.

Mark just nodded. "Do you want to see her?"

Roger shrugged. "If she's in town. If not, tell her not to worry. And that I love her."

Mark wanted to protest that response, that it was unfair to trick his mother like that. But Mark was hardly one to judge on parental relationships, and the very reason Roger didn't immediately blow up at the suggestion--like he could have done--was proof that he was at least open to the idea of meeting with her. 

"I'll make the call."

Mark ended up leaving a vague message that wasn't returned until two weeks later. Roger never said another word on the matter. He didn't have the chance.  

Looking back, Mark would remember how tired Roger had looked the past two days... three days... month. He would remember how remarkable it had been to get Roger talking that morning. That hadn't happened after their taxing conversation Friday. 

Looking back, Mark would have paid closer attention to the heavy breathing of his friend, and how still his body was on the hospital bed, and how weak it seemed when Mark had asked if he wanted food. 

Looking back, Mark would remember the conversation for the rest of his life.

_"Im gonna grab some coffee. You want anything?" Mark had asked._

_Roger had shook his head. But smiled at him, "but thanks for asking, Mark."_

Mark had just nodded and waved as he exited the room. He should have pictured that smile a little better. 

Because when he got back to the floor ten minutes later with his coffee and saw three nurses running at break neck speed into Roger's room, Mark forgot everything. He forgot how to breath, he forgot Roger's smile, he forgot that he was standing in the middle of the hospital with a forgotten coffee in his forgotten grip. He only remembered how to run and where to run too. 

Mark raced into the room. He saw too many people surrounding Roger's bed barking orders and pressing buttons and moving equipment. Mark stood at the doorway and watched. The same doctor from Rogers first day in the hospital was at the head of everything. She held a pair of defibrillators and stood poised at the head of the bed, eyeing the erratic beeping coming from Rogers heart monitor.

"Clear!" Mark heard her shout.

The staff drew away. She placed the two pads on Rogers chest and shocked him.

Rogers entire body shot up in a painful arch. But his eyes did not open at the motion. And Mark's heart did not slow down from its painful pounding that reminded him far too much that he was alive. 

The doctors shouted orders and numbers left and right. Orders and numbers that flew right over Mark's head. He could not move his eyes from Roger on the bed. His friend. His best friend who was not moving, eyes shut in something far worse than sleep, and mouth open slightly with no audible breath. While Mark looked on helplessly with a single train of  _no, no, no, NO! In his head._

Two hands suddenly gripped his shoulders and shook his shoulders hard. They were telling him he had to leave.

"No, no you don't understand. That’s my friend! He's my friend! Please-"

"Sir, you need to give us room-"

"No!"

 But they managed to shove him outside the door and against the hallway. Gripping. Forcing. Uncaring. His shoulders collided painfully with the wall. And with the collision nearly ringing in his ears, his fight left. Mark felt the hands leave his shoulders and suddenly it became very difficult to balance. His body swayed dangerously, and he had to concentrate to remain upright. 

He could not think.

He probably should have left. They probably should have gotten him out of the line of sight. 

Everything happened so fast. 

Because, even if he was out of the way, he was still in full view of the hospital room. He could still see, even if he could not comprehend, the mad rush of people. And he heard with perfect clarity when the mad rush suddenly stopped. 

And when the ringing of the heart monitor held no beat. And when the doctor spoke up.

"Time of death, eleven twenty-three am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hopefully the flow makes sense. It's supposed to feel a little disjointed, but only a little. I have one more (epilogue) chapter planned and then it's complete.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! I'll be posting the next chapters every other day till it's over.


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